


The Experiment: part IV

by Ttime42



Series: Experiment [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF Mrs. Hudson, Corporal Punishment, Doctor John Watson, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Mother-Son Relationship, Series, Spanking, Spoons, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-29 19:47:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ttime42/pseuds/Ttime42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The continuing adventures of Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson's spoon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Present day_

                "You really put your foot in it this time, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson stood in the foyer, arms crossed tight, foot tapping impatiently. Her mouth was set in a hard line as she peered up at her tenant. Sherlock's eyes were down, staring at her skirt. His shoulders were rounded forward and if he had a tail, it would be hugging his thighs. That she was much shorter than him didn't make a difference. He had discovered, annoyingly, that she could cow him with just her stance and a glare, much like now.

                "I don’t know why you care so much." He muttered. He looked up when she sighed sadly.

                "Oh, Sherlock…"

                He had gotten hurt. That's all. He was on a case, he got injured, he went to hospital, and now he was fine. At least, that's how Sherlock saw it. Mrs. Hudson though, had a different view of how this past case had played out…

_Two weeks earlier_

                Sherlock thundered down the steps in 221B, yanking his gloves on. His eyes were gleaming and he couldn’t keep the grin off his face, the one that John had told him in the flat was 'a bit not good.' The good doctor was behind him, galloping down the steps as eagerly as he was.

                "Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson's voice came out off 221A and Sherlock hesitated as John barreled out the front door.

                "What?" He tried not to sound as snappy as he wanted to. Did she really need to interrupt now‒right now? They were heading out to grab a suspect and every second counted.

                "Is this about that mad gunman in the news?"

                "Yes." He growled.

                She came out of the flat in her purple flowery dressing gown and slippers and absently adjusted his scarf. "Be careful, love. Don’t do anything stupid."

                He missed the way she said it, the deep worry in her tone and her glassy eyes. He didn't know that she hadn't been sleeping well since she knew he was taking on this case, the one on the news about the serial shooter whom Sherlock had indentified mere hours ago: a young man who was dangerously angry. She always worried about him, John too for that matter, but this case was especially troublesome. She much preferred it when he investigated dead bodies with that lovely girl at the morgue. Not when he was dashing about all night after deranged live ones.

                "I won't!" With that, he was off into the night.

                She spent another sleep-deprived night worrying and tossing fitfully and it was early the next morning when she heard noise in the foyer. She popped her head out the door and saw a weary John trudging towards the stairs.

                "John?" She asked.

                "Oh, hi Mrs. Hudson." He said, one foot up on the first step. "We got our suspect. He's with Dimmock."

                She tightened her dressing gown and came out into the hall. "Where's Sherlock?"

                "Sherlock's fine. Rather, he will be fine. He's in hospital."

                She gasped, covering her mouth with her hand.

                "Don't worry." John came to her and wrapped her in a brief hug. "He will be okay, I promise."

                "What happened?"

                John was quiet. "Well…"

                "John?" She prompted.

                "He was shot."

* * *

 

                Two days later, Sherlock was home. The bullet had grazed  over his left forearm, leaving torn flesh and lots of blood, but it wasn't bad enough to warrant a long hospital stay. Mrs. Hudson heard them arrive, and within the hour she was knocking on their door.

                "Sherlock!" She pulled him into a hug when he answered it, minding his bandaged arm. She kissed him on the cheek, ignoring his rolling eyes. "Are you okay? What happened?" At the desk, John grinned.

                "I'm fine." He groused.

                "You are not 'fine,' young man." She countered. "No one who gets shot is fine. Here." She put a bag of biscuits on the kitchen table and John's eyes widened happily at the sight.

                "Tea?" He offered, rising.

                "Oh yes, please, John. Now what happened?" She bustled Sherlock over to the sofa and sat him down, holding his left arm gently, armoring the wound with her hands.

                "Not much really. We found the suspect. He ran. We chased him. I got shot."

                "And nearly hit by a lorry!" John chimed in from the kitchen. Sherlock grit his teeth, mentally thanking the doctor for volunteering that bit of info.

                "A lorry?!" Mrs. Hudson repeated, startled.

                "The suspect ran out into the street…" Sherlock grumbled. John appeared, balancing three mugs of tea. He handed two over and Sherlock gave him a look, trying to convey to John to _shutup!_ He either didn't understand or didn’t see it. He set his mug down on the desk beside his computer and left the room. The loo door shut moments later.

                "So you followed him out into the busy street? At _night_?!" Mrs. Hudson sounded less concerned now and more outraged.

                "He would have gotten away, otherwise." Sherlock protested. He sipped his tea, not liking where this conversation was going.

                "And how did you get shot?"

                "He…" Sherlock frowned at the floor. "He told me if I took one step closer, he'd fire." A pause. "I thought he was bluffing." Oh yes, definitely not a good direction for this conversation to be going.

                "What did I tell you before you left?" Mrs. Hudson asked in a quiet voice.

                "You said to be careful."

                "And were you?"

                That tone. Sherlock knew that tone. He froze and slid his eyes to her. Oh God, he knew that look too. His bum tingled.

                "Mrs. Hudson." He said, lowering the mug to his lap. "I had to chase him‒"

                "You most certainly did not have to chase him! There were a whole team of officers also pursuing this man, were there not?"

                "Well, yes…"

                "Officers who I don't care about nearly as much as I care about you! You completely disregarded your own well being, Sherlock Holmes! And for what?"

                Sherlock leaned forward, putting the tea down on the table. "You're upset." He glanced frantically towards the occupied bathroom. He really hoped John couldn't hear this. "I'm…sorry you're upset, but I had to solve the case."

                Mrs. Hudson wasn't impressed with his excuse.

                "It's what I do!" Sherlock said.

                "You solve cases." Her voice was iron. "You do not take silly risks that put your life in danger because you think a madman is bluffing."

                Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. His bum tingled some more in warning.

                "I care about you, Sherlock." She said in a gentler tone. "You're like a son to me, and if anything happened to you, I'd be absolutely devastated." She laced her fingers with his. "We all would." She paused to let that sink in.

                "Yes." He nodded frantically, trying to convey that he understood completely‒that he'd never understood anything so well in his life (as long as it kept him clear of that spoon.) "I understand. It won't happen again."

                "Good." She smiled warmly and patted his knee and Sherlock sighed in relief. A spoon-themed crisis appeared to have been averted.

                Mrs. Hudson continued conversationally, picking lint from his skirt, "so you won't argue when I tell you that you deserve a spanking  for your reckless behavior."

                "What?! But‒no‒I understand!" This wasn't how it was supposed to happen at all.

                His argument that he was a detective and this is what he did for a living wasn't satisfactory to her, and he really had no other excuse for chasing that idiot and getting shot at. It was clear that another wretched spanking was imminent, and weirdly‒though he hated that damned spoon‒he sort of, in a way, liked that she cared so much. She was willing to try and keep him in line to keep him safe. He _did_ appreciate it, and had to grudgingly admit that her methods were effective, at least for a while. He hadn't experimented on John in ages. He'd have to be more subtle about it next time he did…

                "Sherlock…" She warned.

                He let out a put-upon sigh. "Not here." He said finally.

                The toilet flushed.

                "Not _now."_ He pleaded. "Not in front of…" He nodded towards the loo.

                "No." She agreed, softening her voice. "Not now, love. You just got out of hospital, after all. But just you wait."

                Sherlock relaxed back into the cushions, a frown on his face. He didn't want to get smacked. He was doing so well. It had been months since she'd taken that rutting spoon to his arse, and now‒ _now_ he not only knew it was coming, he had to wait for it. Well, no. He didn't have to wait for it. He could refuse. That option was completely available to him. She was his landlady for heaven's sake, not his mother. And yet, he allowed her method of corporal caring to go on. On some level, he appreciated it in a weird way‒her unique method of caring for him and wanting to show him that she cared for him in the form of fussing and smacking and his favorite biscuits. Sherlock scowled, irritated with himself that he ultimately did appreciate it all.

                 John entered the room went to the desk and Mrs. Hudson took Sherlock's left hand and kissed the back of it. "Poor boy." She smoothed her hand over Sherlock's hair, pushing it away from his face. "I'll let you rest, now." She stood. "Thank you for the tea, John."

                "Oh, you're welcome." He popped up again and got the door for her. "Thanks for the biscuits."

                "No trouble, dear."

                John closed the door after her. The flat was silent for a moment and John watched Sherlock reclined on the sofa, looking relaxed and reposed with his eyes closed.

                "I half thought she'd wallop you right here." John said.

                Sherlock eyes blazed open. "Not _yet_!" He snarled. "If you hadn't said anything about the bloody lorry, she wouldn’t be at all!"

                "Hey, don't blame me for this!" He shot back. "You _were_ careless."

                "But we got the suspect." Sherlock growled.

                "Yeah, and you got shot in the arm. Honestly, Sherlock. It could have been so much worse. You could be _dead_ for fuck's sake, all because you thought the deranged gunman, who had already killed four people, was bluffing? I'm not surprised she's as upset as she is."

                Sherlock let out a growl of frustration and rolled over, cradling his sore arm to his chest and facing the back of the sofa. All these people caring about him was a right pain in the arse. Literally.

* * *

**tbc...**


	2. Chapter 2

 

_Present day_

                Sherlock picked up his buzzing phone. A text. Molly.

                _Hi Sherlock! Got some bodies you might like. Three people, prelims didn't tell us anything. No obvious cause of death but purple liquid is dripping from ears. Interested? <3 Molly._

Sherlock wrapped his scarf around his neck and pulled on his coat, easing the sleeve over the wound. The worst of his injury was pretty much healed. He still kept it bandaged since it was still tender and sore, but under John's diligent care, it was healing quickly.

                He was heading for the main door when he heard a "Sherlock?" come from Mrs. Hudson's flat. He closed his eyes, hand on the knob as everything came flooding back. Dammit. Somehow he'd forgotten that she said she was going to wallop him. Somehow. Until this very moment. A sort of annoyed, anxious dread washed over him, prickling in his gut like static.

                "Mrs. Hudson." He turned away from the door and gave her a tight smile.

                "Where are you off to, love?"

                "The morgue." He said. He walked slowly back to where she stood near the stairs.

                "A case from the Yard?"

                He paused. To lie or not to lie…. "No." He _could_ make noises about having an urgent case and spoon her off, but he'd just be prolonging the inevitable.

                "Ah. How's your arm?"

                "Getting better." He said quietly. She had a hard, disappointed look about her as she glanced down at his arm. Sherlock remembered school matrons giving him a similar gaze when he'd been in trouble as a boy. His mother could do that too. Was there some sort of gene that all women had that allowed them to look all kinds of angry, disappointed, and sympathetic? He shuffled his feet and looked down, feeling small and about eight years old.

                "You really put your foot in it this time." She said.

                "I don’t know why you care so much." He muttered. He looked up when she sighed sadly.

                "Oh, Sherlock…" She cradled the side of his face. "I _do_ care. I'll always care. Ever since you helped me…"

                Sherlock watched her, remembering her beast of a husband.

                "That's why it's maddening and frustrating when you go off on some hare-brained case and nearly get yourself killed!" She scolded.

                Sherlock crossed his arms defensively. "I always go on cases, though."

                "And I expect you to at least treat yourself with basic self respect and a sense of self preservation. You and John both. There was no need for you to get shot. The police could have handled it."

                Sherlock scowled.

                "Do you think you deserve a spanking for this?" She prompted. "To help you remember that you have people who care about you and that you need to be more careful?"

                Sherlock scowled more at the hated word.

                "Hm?"

                "Maybe." He muttered.

                "I think you definitely do." She walked past him and went up two steps. Sherlock watched her, puzzled. "Well, come on." She commanded, pointing upstairs. "Your flat's not going to come down here."  
                "Why up there?" Sherlock followed her slowly. "John‒"

                "‒is at the surgery. He will be for the next three hours."

                Nerves started sparking in his belly. Why were they going up to his flat? They never went to his flat. She'd always spanked him in her flat. They got up the stairs and he closed the door behind them both and slid off his gloves, feeling ill as she went into the kitchen and reappeared moments later bearing their own wooden spoon, stained a little oddly in places from various experiments. He couldn't help the put-upon sigh that escaped his lips. The fire. That spoon was definitely going in the fire next chance he had. He stared at her for a few moments, anxious and fidgety, and glanced down at the spoon.

                "After you!" She declared, gesturing towards his bedroom with the horrible object. "I'm not going to wait here all day!" Sherlock scurried past, wincing as he half expected her to smack him on the way. She didn't, and he slid his coat off, hanging it on the door. He watched warily as she entered the room.

                "Sherlock." She set the spoon on his side table and came to him, pulling him into a hug again. "I don't like spanking you, dear. But you're just so careless sometimes! Making John sick, giving him nightmares, scaring me half to death going out after some madman! We love you, Sherlock. Like I said yesterday, if anything happened to you we'd all be devastated."

                "Sorry." He whispered, surprised that he had worried her. "I…didn't know it would bother you so much."

                "Well, it does!" She pulled away and marched to the foot of his bed. "Go bring me the spoon."

                Sherlock swallowed down the bad taste in his mouth and went to the table where she'd left it, picking it up like it was road kill and bringing it to her, offering the handle.

                "Good lad. Now bend over the footboard."

                Sherlock did, feeling for some reason especially tense. It wasn't the spanking he was exceptionally worried about, but she had changed the whole routine. His flat, not hers. His bed, not her sofa.  A different spoon. Both were wood, but this spoon was a little bigger. Better for scooping entrails out of bowls. He doubted it would hurt less though. If anything the wider surface area would give more sting. He rolled his eyes at himself, deducing his own damn spanking.

                His hips were propped over the footboard, his arms bent at the elbow and palms flat on the quilt.

                "Good. Does your arm hurt?" She asked, rubbing a soothing hand over his shoulder.

                "No." He said.

                "If it does, you tell me, okay?"

                "Yes, ma'am."

                "Brace yourself."

                Sherlock did, and she smacked the spoon down. It popped across his cheek and he jumped, startled at the sting. He was right, it wasn't quite as sharp as her spoon, but it still stung and burned like mad. She gave him another smack, and another. He tried not to squirm, but knew he was failing miserably as he shifted over the footboard, his brain suggesting that he get up and run. The spoon landed repeatedly on his backside, alternating cheeks. The sting was building like a wildfire, getting hotter and hotter as Mrs. Hudson added fuel.

                He let out a small gasp and gripped the quilt. His heart was starting to pound and the beginnings of a sweat were breaking on his neck and back as his body responded to the painful spanking. This reminded him vaguely of getting caned in school‒granted, the cane wielded by his headmaster had hurt a hell of a lot more than this spoon, but he was still bent over and in the wrong, getting his arse warmed for his transgressions. The cane bit deep, but the wide head of the spoon stung and throbbed. He shifted, lifting one foot, then the other. He grabbed the blankets tighter as the repeated application of wood to bum grew to a new level, hot and flat and scorching.

                The final smack rang out in the room and Sherlock took a deep breath when he felt her warm hand smooth over his hair.

                "Good lad. Very good, Sherlock."

                He sighed into his bedding, his arse buzzing unpleasantly.

                "How do you feel?" She asked. "Other than your bum."

                "Okay, I suppose."

                "Good. Take your trousers down, love. We're far from done."

                Sherlock blinked and lifted his head.

                "What?" He looked over his shoulder. _Trousers?!_  "What do you mean we're far from done!?"

                "I mean exactly what I said. Trousers down."

                He stared at her.

                "Come on." She patted his backside gently with the spoon. "Down they go."

                "But Mrs. Hudson‒"

                " _Down._ Now, Sherlock. Otherwise I'll give you another round and then you'll take them down. If you want to be twice as sore, then that can be arranged."

                Sherlock turned to face the bed and, after a moment, stood on shaky legs and unfastened and unzipped.

                "Good." She said, watching him slide the fabric off his hips, revealing white silk-cotton boxer briefs. He frowned and leaned forward again, gingerly. The air in the room felt twice as cool on his warm backside and he took a deep breath.

                "I know I've let you keep them up for the other spankings, but I hope now you'll really get a sense of how frightened I was and how horrible it would be if you were gone. Do you remember what I said downstairs?"

                "That you c-cared about me."

                "Yes." Her hand settled on his shoulder again, rubbing back and forth. "I don't like seeing you hurt, Sherlock." She ran her hand down his left bicep, stopping before she reached the wad of bandages. "You can't be so reckless with your life. You're brilliant and a fine friend to John. Well," she smiled, "usually. Think of how he'd feel if you died? He'd be devastated. As would I. And Mycroft. And Molly, and that nice officer who's always polite when he comes to check your flat for drugs‒what's his name?"

                "Lestrade." Sherlock said dully.

                "Yes. Him too. So with any luck, this spanking will make you think twice before running off in front of lorries or getting yourself shot. Understand? There's people here who would miss you!"

                "Yes." He said. Logically, he understood what she meant. But he didn't know _why_ they cared so much. Yes, yes, people cared for each other. Sentiment, social bonds, essential for the survival of the species, but…he wasn't essential.

                "Think about that for this round."

                Sherlock nodded and gripped the blankets again. She _thwacked_ the spoon down smartly over the sore skin and he yelped. She did it again. "Mrs. Hudson!" He squeaked. She kept going, whacking his thinly covered arse, ignoring his pleas. Within seconds, the fire was stoked again and he was clenching his jaw, curling his toes into the floor as the heat built over his pants. Why did underwear have to be so wretchedly thin?! "Stop! Ow! Okay‒I get it‒people care about me‒ow!" He reached up to angrily wipe his eyes. She didn't smack him as long as she had previously (not that it was much consolation. It still hurt like hell), and he let out another breathy sigh when she finished.

                "There, there…" She rubbed his back, massaging around his shoulder blade. "You're okay…" She handed him some tissue and he wiped his eyes again. He used to get annoyed that she could make him cry, but not anymore. She had seen his tears once, she didn't judge. And it's not like John was here to see him or hear him. That was certainly something to be thankful for. He didn't want to cry in front of John. Although…John was good. He wouldn't judge either.

                Mrs. Hudson stroked his back, giving him the time to recover. They still weren't done, but she had no problem giving him a few minutes. He didn’t really understand yet, that his death would devastate so many people. John especially would take it hard. They'd both had a rough time of it before meeting. Sherlock was so lonely and snappish, and though she didn't know for sure what John had dealt with, she knew about the war and the nightmares. That was enough to be going on. John had been nothing but good for Sherlock. He'd opened the detective up in a way that no one ever had before. He accepted the man, foibles and all, and still Sherlock shied away from people and denounced affection as weakness and sentiment. That brilliant brain of his could process a million scientific observations a minute, but the concept that other people might worry for him and love him had to be drummed in. Mrs. Hudson sighed. Maybe she'd bake a cake for the boys tonight. Sherlock wasn't having the best day ever and John was fond of that lemon poppy cake she made. Until then though…

                "Feeling alright?" She asked, still rubbing.

                "Yes‒wait, we're done right?" He looked up at her and when she gave him a sympathetic smile he groaned. She came around and sat on the edge of the bed, cradling his chin. "One more round, then I promise we're done, love."

                He nodded and she wiped a tear away with her thumb. "Come on, over my lap. I won't make you do this last bit alone."

                Sherlock thought of arguing, but let it go. Given the choice, he kind of did prefer to be over her knee. He realized then that it was the contact that was soothing and he frowned. Since when did he care about personal contact? He stood slowly and kicked his trousers off the rest of the way, tiptoeing to her side. He rubbed the heel of his hand over his face.

                "Pants down."

                Not surprising. And again, no arguing. He did sigh though, hooking his fingers into the waistband and tugging down to his thighs, baring his backside to the room. It was humiliating, yes. He knew she didn't care about seeing him either way though‒four sons will do that to a mother. Between her own kids, her husband, and then having Sherlock as a tenant, he doubted anything at all on the planet would faze her. He got over her knees, letting the bed do most of the supporting. He couldn't help but wince as she wrapped her arm firmly around his hip.

                "Ready?" She asked.

                "Yes." He grit his teeth and wasn't disappointed. The first one came down with a loud _pop-smack_ and he startled, surprised at the new sound as much as the pain. That hurt! He started with an "ow!" on the first whack and by number five he was nearly writhing over her legs, trying to keep still but failing rather spectacularly. "Stop! Stop, please! I'll think next time, I will!" Tears coursed down his face and he sniffed them back. "Ow! Mrs. Hudson, c'mon…" Two more solid _smacks_ , and she set the spoon on the bed.

                "Good job, Sherlock." She praised. She rubbed her hand through his hair, knowing he liked that. He sniffled a few more times and sighed, the initial tension bleeding out of his muscles. "There you go, you just lay here. We're done now. Will you think twice before running out in front of lorries and assuming that crazy people with guns are bluffing?"

                "Yes." He mumbled.

                "Glad to hear it." She rubbed her fingertips over his skull for a few more minutes. Her point had been well received if the shade of his arse was anything to go by.

                "Ready?" She asked gently.

                He nodded and lifted off her knees, wiping his eyes again.

                "Oh…" She couldn't help dabbing the tears off his cheeks. He gave her a shy smile and tugged up his pants, wincing before he pulled his trousers on too. "You take care of that arm." She said.

                "Yes, ma'am." He said. She pulled him into a hug and left. Sherlock went into the bathroom and scowled at his teary face. He peeled his clothes back again and checked the damage in the mirror. The entirety of his cheeks were bright pink, splotched here and there with darker red oval marks. Heaving out a great sigh, Sherlock pulled his clothes up again and brought the spoon into the sitting room and flung it towards the fireplace. It bounced off the grate with a _clang_. He found his phone and texted Molly.

                _Still available? ‒SH_

_Of course! <3 Molly_

Sherlock spent the next hour or so at the lab, irritated because he couldn't sit down properly. Molly didn't seem to catch on though, and she sent him home with tissue samples and several fingers, which improved his mood quite a bit. When he got up to the flat, John was standing over the sink, eating a slice of lemon glazed cake.

                "Hey, Sherlock." He said through a mouthful.

                "John. Good day?"

                "Fine. Your arm okay?" John finished the cake and scraped his plate clean.

                "It's fine." He knew John would insist on checking, so he stuck the samples in the fridge and slipped out of his coat.

                "Mrs. Hudson brought cake." John said, setting the plate in the sink and washing his hands. "Nice of her."

                "Yes, very kind." Sherlock said dryly. He sat very carefully on the kitchen chair, the pan of cake on the table assaulting his nose with lemony sweetness.

                "You okay?" John pushed his bag into the kitchen with his foot and sat across from his friend, rolling back the sleeve and peeling up the bandage.

                "Fine."

                "You look sore."

                "Not sore."

                John eyed him carefully. "She got you, didn’t she?"

                Sherlock scowled and John pulled away the bandage, revealing a red, healing mark on the pale skin.      

                "She…she might have."

                "Are you alright?" John asked, trying not to laugh.

                "Shutup!" Sherlock snipped.

                "Sorry‒I'm sorry." John said, looking up at Sherlock, glad to see he was grinning.

                "Want me to check your bu‒ "

                "‒No."

                John snorted and taped a new bandage on and Sherlock turned away from him, tearing off a chunk of the cake with his fingers.

                "Do you think she'd ever spank me?" John asked, pulling the sleeve back down. Sherlock seemed pretty sore, and if the way he was fidgeting in the chair was anything go by, Mrs. Hudson was stronger than she looked.

                "I don't know, John." Sherlock muttered through a mouthful of crumbly cake. It was delicious. "Go get yourself shot at and find out."

                John got up and went to wash him hands again. She wouldn't though…right? Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock had a special relationship. She was like a mother to him. He couldn't help but wonder though, and he wasn't sure he wanted to ever find out.

the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :)


End file.
